


Inside My Head

by lakehymn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Hallucinations, M/M, Oral Sex, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakehymn/pseuds/lakehymn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You killed me,” the Master says. He’s there now, standing in the Tardis, the walls of which are burning all around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside My Head

( _one two three four the drums the drumming on and on inside my head all the time_ )

It’s all the Doctor can hear—the Master’s voice—repeating over and over, constantly playing in a loop, just like the Master with his drums. It’s the Doctor’s own mind that’s created this, though, not the Time Lords, which means he has only himself to blame.

Twice now, he’s seen this incarnation die right in front of his eyes, while he just stood there, helpless. It’s for this reason that he drives himself mad with guilt, as he always does, as he always will, just like with all the others. But with the Master, it’s so much worse. It always has been.

“You killed me,” the Master says. He’s there now, standing in the Tardis, the walls of which are burning all around him. His hair is light and his face is unshaven.

Somehow, the Doctor is unsurprised to see him ( _but not ungrateful_ ).

“You’re not real,” he tells him, but his voice wavers. “I’m imagining you.”

The Master throws his head back and laughs, and he sounds just as maniacal as ever.

“So?” he replies. “You still killed me.”

“I didn’t,” the Doctor insists weakly. “Rassilon...”

“No. It was your fault.” The Master moves towards him. “Yours. I died and saved your skin.”

“But I didn’t...” the Doctor says. He takes a step back, away from the Master and his fixed glare, and finds himself backed into a wall. “I never wanted you to...”

But the Master just walks closer and closer, as the Doctor simply stands there, frozen in place. Suddenly, a hand is on the wall above the Doctor’s shoulder and the Master is so close that their noses almost touch. The Doctor is all too aware that he can feel the Master’s hot breath on his face.

Desperately, ( _because there has to be a way for all of this to be real_ ), the Doctor reaches out and touches his fingers lightly to the Master’s cheek.

“I can feel you,” he whispers, surprised ( _and so, so grateful_ ).

Again, the Master begins to laugh his maniacal laugh ( _and it really is a glorious sound_ ). Then he leans forward even closer until his and the Doctor’s lips are only centimeters apart.

“So you can, Doctor.”

The Doctor looks into the Master’s eyes, so close to his now, cold and dead with a malevolent glint in them ( _though that’s always been there_ ). He shudders and turns his head, pointedly staring at a random spot on the other side of the Tardis. Then the Master’s fingers are on his chin, forcing him to look straight ahead into those eyes.

“Doctor,” the Master says, his tone commanding.

All the Doctor’s willpower disappears at the sound of that voice.

“Master.”

Upon hearing that, the Master begins to smile, slow and mad.

“You really do miss me, don’t you?” he asks mockingly.

The Doctor replies, “I can’t help it.” His tone is meant to be cheeky, but his voice sounds so vulnerable, even to his own ears.

The Master laughs, and though there’s still madness there, it’s without contempt now.

“I know,” he replies. His voice is surprisingly soft.

The Doctor says again, “Master,” and the Master closes his eyes at the sound of his own name.

Then the Doctor reaches out and slowly runs a hand through the Master’s hair, all the while muttering—whispering—useless things in that rambling way he has. The Doctor is breathless by the time the Master leans forward and finally does what the Doctor has been wanting him to do, been waiting for him to do, for so long now ( _and it’s pathetic how it only happens when it isn’t really him at all_ ). The Master leans forward and softly touches his lips to the Doctor’s. When the Doctor doesn’t pull away, the kiss becomes rough, and the Doctor finds himself gripping the Master’s hair.

Somewhere else, worlds are turning and planets are being destroyed, and the Doctor knows because he can feel them, just as certainly as he can feel the floor of the Tardis underneath his feet. He can feel every movement, every turn, and every change. The burden of a Time Lord. It is all real.

What isn’t real is the feeling of the Master’s stubble underneath his lips, the Master’s mouth, warm and open pressed against his own, the Master’s hair between his fingers, and the Master’s hand still guiding his chin, a show of power.

The Doctor knows this, and yet, he has to remind himself.

Then, suddenly, the Master pulls away, and there’s nothing—nothing but the darkness underneath the Doctor’s eyelids and the humming of the Tardis somewhere in the distance. No longer able to feel another body pressed against his, he thinks, for one terrifying moment, that the Master has disappeared, faded back into nonexistence ( _where he belongs_ ).

But then he opens his eyes, and he realizes that the Master is slowly undoing his trousers. He unbuttons them and pulls them to the floor, along with the Doctor’s pants. Then the Master’s fingers, skillful and limber, begin working away at his erection.

Soon the Doctor’s breathing becomes shallow. He tries to focus on something else, ( _something real_ ), like the turn of the worlds or the fact that he’s only minutes away from regenerating, but the Master’s hand on his cock is making that increasingly more difficult, and when the Doctor parts his lips, a groan escapes from the back of his throat.

Then the Master licks his lips and continues with his mouth.

( _not real not real not real not real_ )

The Doctor moans, “Koschei,” when he comes. He’s panting and his hearts are racing.

Then the Master stands, and he wraps his fingers around the Doctor’s tie and pulls him into a fierce kiss. The Doctor can taste his own climax on the Master’s lips.

After a few moments, the Doctor pulls away. He places a hand on the Master’s cheek, half expecting him to move out of the way. He doesn’t.

“Don’t go,” the Doctor breathes.

“I’m dead,” the Master says, his tone caustic. “Remember?”

The Doctor moves his hand to the Master’s chest—first the left side, and then the right. He can feel both heartbeats racing.

“You don’t feel dead.”

The Master grabs the Doctor’s wrist, still pressed against his chest, and leans forward. His lips brush lightly over the Doctor’s, not quite a kiss.

When he pulls away, his smile seems cruel, but his voice is gentle when he says, “Goodbye, Doctor.”

“No, no, no, no, no—”

But there’s nothing the Doctor can do. He reaches out to grab onto the Master’s arm before he disappears, but he finds himself closing his fingers around air.

The Master is gone ( _again_ ). And ( _yet again_ ) the Doctor couldn’t do anything to stop it.

By the time he regenerates, he’s alone.


End file.
